Rebirth
by Syntyche
Summary: Awoken a staggering two decades after his plane crashed into the frigid ocean, Steve Rogers faces a lonely future - until a trip to the carnival yields an interesting turn of events and a surprised Steve finds himself in charge of two mischeivous, wayward brothers.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Rebirth

**Authors:** Syntyche and Bookdancer

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer:** Marvel owns it, obviously, except the plot which is Bookdancer's and the words that attempt to fill it, which is mine. J

**Synop:** Awoken a staggering two decades after his plane crashed into the frigid ocean, Steve Rogers faces a lonely future until a trip to the carnival yields a surprising turn of events and a surprised Steve finds himself in charge of two wayward brothers.

**Reviews**: are awesome and adored.

**Rebirth**

By: Syntyche and Bookdancer

Chapter One

Tonight, he felt lonelier than usual.

As the shadows crawled across his darkening kitchen, dimming the clean but scuffed red-checked floor tiles, Steve Rogers realized that feeling even more alone was no small feat for a man as displaced in time as he was; a man who had been unexpectedly awoken from death and dropped into the unfamiliar with the adamant expectation that he pick up where he left off without any sense of transposition or hesitation at all.

Sometimes, that was just too much to hope for, even for Captain America.

The sense of weariness burdening his broad shoulders as he slumped at the small table was pervasively overwhelming, sinking into the deepest parts of his soul as intimately and thoroughly as the frigid water submerging his drowning body had invaded his form as it flooded the small, sinking place he'd been piloting over forty years ago.

Steve stared numbly at the sheaf of papers in his loosely clenched fist, wishing he could find the sense of peace, of contentment that had always eluded him; he should simply be grateful to be alive, there was nothing more to it: he had a home, a job where he helped people, a routine. His soul didn't have a right to ask for more.

But Steve, to his shame, hated it here. He hated the cramped noisiness of a place that was never still. He hated the clutter of too much in too small a space. He hated the smog that grasped heavily on to the breeze and crawled across his skin, leaving him ever feeling filthy and tired. He just hated … this.

Steve sighed gently and replaced the neatly-typed documents he was supposed to be studying back into their plain, unmarked file folder. He ought to be reading them, absorbing details for his upcoming assignment, but in truth he simply wasn't feeling motivated to do so - unhappily adding unwanted guilt to the staggering amalgam of despair battering relentlessly at his already cracked psyche. He _should_ be reading his 'homework.' He _should_ be geared up and ready to go at a moment's notice - he was the Super Soldier, after all, the go-to guy, the Symbol and the Legend and whatever else he'd been called that is embarrassing yet also true. The fact that he didn't fill committed to his awe-inspiring role tonight shamed him further, and Steve resignedly yet determinedly pulled out the folder again with a renewed sense of duty.

But the small words blurred before his eyes, though it had nothing to do with his eyesight and everything to do with the fact that he, Steve Rogers - Captain America - was lonely and exhausted and overwhelmed. Since being thawed and immediately put to work for SHIELD - the clandestine organization that had done the rescuing and thawing - Steve's vigor and sense of purpose, strong and brilliant at first, had slowly dwindled to a single-minded focus on getting the current job done and moving on to the next.

Steve knew his work with SHIELD helped people, and he was proud to serve. But his tenure with the covert operation wasn't quite the same as his very brief stint in the army, which had been his original dream: working alongside others for fellow man and country, boldly defending the innocent, quietly helping the helpless.

Working for SHIELD was more … of a grey area. He wasn't to know more than that the bad guys were bad and his job was to take them out using any means necessary. Steve was throwing himself on grenades not to save his squad or fellow soldiers, but to accomplish ends even he wasn't certain of, and he often wasn't even told the ramifications or end result of his bloody work.

It all left the soldier feeling a little sullied.

But Steve was determined to do his utmost to repay the organization that had taken him in when he'd been awoken over forty years after going to sleep, endlessly and - almost - tirelessly accepting mission after mission without a break as if he could atone for the unknown sins dragging him down into bleakness and despair. His SHIELD-assigned handler had taken notice and suggested to him on multiple occasions that he take just a little time in between assignments and stop hiding in his apartment or on base, that he shouldn't let his miraculously recovered life blur by as it had while he'd been inhabiting an iceberg for decades, but Steve was still dragging his feet about rejoining society, privately feeling that the less he knew of the world now, the less genuine ties to people he had, the better off he was.

And some times, he thought the world would be just fine without him. In fact, he _knew_ it would, but at times he admitted to himself with trepidation that he thought about it more than was healthy, and those times were like _this_ night, when the soldier was weary and alone, and his splintered self sighed for release from a world he didn't belong in, a world that clearly didn't want old-fashioned but was obsessed with shiny and new and persistently stretched the boundaries of decency and morality that were ingrained in every fiber of Steve Rogers' being.

The shadows darkening the floor reached his feet, stealing across his bare toes as Steve stared idly.

The world _didn't _need him.

After all, what could one man do?

There were still bad guys - there would _always_ be bad guys - but the people Steve loved, the familiar things he knew, are mostly gone now, and that which he did know was slowly being eroded by the passage of time that had drained them while he's been buried beneath an iceberg. A normal man wouldn't have survived the crash, let alone the subsequent deep-sea burial. But Steve Rogers was far from normal.

Steve again replaced the folder and grabbed his shoes and jacket decisively, slipping into the well-worn leather that should have been replaced by now. There was one place he used to distance himself when the uneasy voice in his mind started to get too loud, and thankfully it was only a short walk to the on-base gym; it was only a little after five when he first put his wrapped fists to the familiar solid weight of the punching bag, but it was almost seven when his handler found him: a dark-skinned man with piercing eyes that saw more than seemed possible, Nick Fury was a man assured of his purpose in life and rested securely in the knowledge that he was every day living up to his ideals.

At least, that's how it felt to Steve, and he was man enough to admit that he occasionally felt a little wryly put off toward the other man because of it.

"Rogers! What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Sweating, panting, pushing cluttered details of assignments past and present from his over stimulated mind, Steve turned to face Fury, perspiration pouring down his face, dampening his blonde hair and adhering his sleeveless t-shirt to his slick skin uncomfortably.

"Is that a rhetorical question, sir?" he asked dryly, raising an eyebrow inquisitorially.

Fury stared him down, unamused; he went so far as to cross his arms over his chest and glare tautly and Steve found himself straightening unconsciously, stiff shoulders snapping back as his spine realigned itself neatly.

"Did you or did you not just return this morning from assignment?" Fury demanded, and Steve nodded smartly.

"Yes, sir."

"And did I hear correctly that you - _without my approval _- accepted another mission set to fly out at 0400 tomorrow morning?"

Steve shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't _meant_ to go around Fury; his orders had simply come from higher up. "Yes, sir," he replied quietly.

"Go home," Fury ordered, abruptly dismissing Rogers' automatic yet weary protest. "You're not shipping out tomorrow."

"I have no home, sir," Steve responded before he could stop himself, the damning words falling from his lips with the rawness only a man who believed in utter honestly was capable of. Steve dropped his gaze, embarrassed he had admitted to this weakness, and waited for Fury to berate him for it. He should. Steve deserved it.

Instead, Fury's strident voice softened fractionally. "How many assignments in the last four months, Rogers?" he demanded quietly, and Steve was troubled to find that his tired mind couldn't come up with a solid answer. He shook his head, mouth open slightly but no words made it through. Fury nodded as though this confirmed what he already knew, and he reached into his briefcase for a stack of slightly crumpled flyers that he stepped forward to shove into Steve's hands.

"Just get out of here, Rogers," he said. "Find something else to do besides work and working out." He snapped his briefcase shut, spinning the tiny numbered dials to lock it. "Don't come back til 0600 Monday morning. Am I clear, Captain?"

Too startled to do more than nod numbly, Steve answered, "Sir. Yes, sir."

Fury gave him a grimly pointed look. "Then start walking, Rogers. 0600 Monday morning. Not a second before."

OoOoOoOoOo

Steve showered and pulled on clean clothes, walking absently toward the door as he flipped through the leaflets from Fury. An immediate, furious blush sprung to his cheeks when he realized that the first few advertisements were for places he couldn't see himself ever frequenting: even the inky black silhouettes of unclad women printed on the paper made him feel a little uncomfortable. There was also a flyer for an antique car show, and one for a traveling carnival, and Steve stared at the last two with a furrow digging into his brow.

In the end, he chose the carnival for the simple reason that he didn't feel like being reminded he's a _classic _like the cars from his time period. And the carnival isn't far; all of the advertisements were for places within walking distance, but it was growing late on this Fall evening and stars were already starting to dot the twilight.

It was a quick walk and Steve could hear the cheerful music and giddy shouts of milling attendees as he approached the cordoned lot littered with brightly colored tents. The enormous big top standing at the far end of the field rose high above the others, and there were hundreds of chatting, laughing people crowded onto the cluttered and trampled grass.

Steve stood at the entrance. He almost turned around, almost just went back to his dark, empty apartment with only the uneasy voice in his head to keep him company …

Steve paid the admission fee and entered the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders.

OoOoOoOoOo

Please review and let Bookdancer know what a great idea this plot is! Daddy!Steve trying to raise teenaged!Clint? My feels are on super-holiday! ;D


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the great response! It's very appreciated!**

**Rebirth**

By: Syntyche and Bookdancer

Chapter Two

Steve jammed his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket to ward off the bite in the air. For a late summer's evening, there was a hint of Fall in the crisp air … or maybe he was the only one who thought so: he seemed to have picked up an ever-present chill since being thawed out, and no amount of layering jackets over sweaters over t-shirts seemed to fully take it away.

The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders was almost recognizable to the troubled soldier: the brightly colored blinking bulbs; the happy, chattering crowd snacking on greasy food they'd regret consuming come tomorrow as they pushed past him to gawk at the next shiny thing to grab their easily-caught attention; the ear-wrenching screech of metal rides long past their recommended maintenance.

If Steve didn't know so differently and utterly, he might have even been to lose himself, just for awhile, to the comforting familiarity; it was at a fair similar to this where he'd first met Doctor Erskine and his life had irrevocably changed when the dream he'd been clinging to for so long had finally begun to come true.

Steve snorted. Yes, his life had become a fairy tale. If only he could remember the story where the sleeping prince was awoken to wander around in hopeless confusion as he tried to uncover a purpose for his new life.

The soldier knew he was wasting his time - _ironic_ - longing for the past, but even here there were enough discrepancies, just enough reminders that this wasn't his place, or his era, and not for the first time - the first time tonight, even - Captain America was lost, lonely, and out-of-touch; a relic, as dated as one of the old cars Agent Fury had given him a flyer for. Steve had good reason for feeling this way, of course: he'd been asleep for forty-five years, frozen and forgotten for nearly half a century while the time stream he'd unwittingly drifted out had flowed on, unimpeded by the loss of one unnoticed laboratory experiment. For the man who had been sleeping, it was a long time to miss, and Steve felt the lost years sharply.

But the young man wandering the main thoroughfare this chilly evening didn't want to think about what he'd lost tonight, he wanted to focus on one night where he could be normal. The lonely soldier ambled aimlessly through the excited crowd, mutely ignoring taunting calls to try games Steve knew were rigged but could probably still win, and he winced as he passed a trio of giggling young women who brushed a little too close for the soldier's comfort as they smiled at him coyly. Steve offered them a polite nod while courteously trying to ignore their horrifically bright makeup that so distracted from the natural beauty Steve appreciated, and the garish amount of padding in the shoulders of their blouses that make them look like football linebackers.

Steve felt his ears turning red from something other than cold as a rather lewd comment reached him, once that he probably wasn't meant to hear. Steve burrowed even deeper into his jacket to hide the blush that crawled insistently across his strong cheekbones, and absently fell in line with those steadily meandering their way to the big top tent where the main attractions were performing.

Inside the enormous tent, the smell of musty sawdust and large animals in close quarters was almost overpowering, and the packed-in crowd made Steve unconsciously edgy, but the soldier was _determined_ to be normal tonight, so he found a seat on a hard wooden bench near the middle of the audience and willed himself to relax and enjoy the show. As the first act unfolded - trapeze artists who caught Steve's enraptured gaze and easily made him forget the crowd and the smells as he watched their amazing acrobatics and dutifully applauded after each trick - Steve slowly allowed himself to relax and just appreciate the cheerful sights and sounds playing out before him. He quietly admitted to himself that Fury might have been right about him needing time off: for just a short while as he cheered on the parade of breathtaking stunts and tricks, the relentless and exhausted supersoldier was replaced by a gawky kid with dreams too grand for his scrawny body who could only wish for the chance to be a part of something bigger.

For the next hour Steve gasped at the acrobats, encouraged the daring lion tamer, and chuckled nervously at the clowns, secretly relieved when that particular act was over.

And for a little while, Steve felt _normal_.

He found himself intrigued when the red-coated ringmaster re-entered the center ring: Mister Carson himself, a gaunt, whip-thin man with a loudly boisterous manner that belied his slight appearance, dramatically announced the next performance: "the most dangerous act in the land: the Swordsman, a duelist without parallel!" Steve leaned forward expectantly on the hard bench, enraptured by the enticing promise skill about to be displayed.

He wasn't disappointed.

The Swordsman strode arrogantly into the ring. His purple-cowled, sleeveless costume fit him like a second skin and couldn't hide his tall, broad-shouldered physique; his swords were slung confidently over his shoulders and he had the air of a genuine swashbuckler, the solid sureness of a man who knew exactly how every second, every single nuance of his act was about to fall into perfect place.

Steve watched raptly with unconscious slack-jawed attention as the Swordsman elicited _oohs_ and _aahs_ from the cheering, excited crowd as he executed every move with grace and flair. The duelist spun and whirled, his blades flashing in the bright house lights as they sliced into thick wooden targets without resistance, a deadly dance of precision and skill melded into a heart-stopping routine as the Swordsman's sequin-costumed assistants were brought out and his blades flashed incredibly close to their skin or easily decimated targets perched upon their outstretched fingers. The Swordsman was also joined by a fellow performer, a marksman with the moniker of Trick Shot, and the act swiftly turned into a dual display of amazing talent as each tried to outdo the other, the targets getting harder and more impossible to reach, the blades and arrows coming ever closer to the hapless but staunch assistants.

Steve's attention was arrested by Trick Shot the moment the archer stepped into the ring and he watched raptly as the marksman fired off multiple arrows simultaneously into bullseye targets at the far end of the ring. The archer's demonstration of distance and skill shots, performed with no apparent trouble at all, had Steve suddenly thinking he needed _more_ time off for hobbies:

All of the sudden, Steve wanted to be an archer.

He sat in the big top long after the performances had ended for the night, mulling over what he had seen, leaving only when the cleanup crew started to shuffle in and gave him the evil eye for still hanging around. Steve left the carnival feeling more at ease and happier than he had in a long time, and he briefly wondered if Captain America was too old to run away and join the circus.

The next night Steve came back to the carnival, a giddy sense of anticipation lodged in his chest as he arrived early to choose a seat even closer to the front than before. The soldier wanted to put his enhanced eyesight to good use and see what tips and tricks he could pick up, and he waited impatiently for the Swordsman and Trick Shot to appear. Once they took the ring Steve watched the act like a hawk, again utterly captivated by the flawless grace and speed displayed. There were even variances on tonight's act - the Saturday night crowd being even bigger than last night's considerable audience - reeling Steve in further and the solider found he was nearly standing by the end of the act, his fists balled together in barely-contained excitement.

The dual act ended to thunderous applause and the ringmaster returned, urging the crowd to cheer even louder for the duelist and the marksman and they happily obliged; Steve cheered and clapped until he was breathless, caught up in childlike excitement, and when the following act took the stage Steve found he was somewhat less interested in the rest of the performances to follow so he carefully slipped out of the big top to breathe less cloistered air. He meandered for a bit through lesser attractions and played a few games - he'd been right, he won them all - and was disturbed to see that one of the funhouse mirrors made him look _exactly_ as he had before being altered by Erskine's supersoldier serum: all ears and limbs.

The skies grew dark with approaching night and Steve felt the familiar chill bringing out gooseflesh on his skin. He wondered if others were cold tonight, if he would always be cold. He tucked his fingers under his armpits, trying to warm them in the stiff leather. Eventually he noticed the crowd beginning to thin, and soon there were only a few wanderers loitering on the litter-covered grounds, scuffling through lazily discarded food wrappers and half-spilt sodas as they scurried past the soldier toward the exits; apparently it had gotten later than Steve had thought while he'd been sadly ogling the unsettling image of his past self in the funhouse.

Steve too started for the exits but gave a longing glance back toward the big top. The huge tent was mostly dark and Steve was inexplicably disheartened; after watching the marksman's show a second time, Steve was convinced he wanted to take up archery, and the idea of asking Trick Shot for a few pointers for beginners had quietly occurred to him.

His feet were taking him back to the big top before his mind was fully aware of it, but perhaps the opportunity to locate the archer was still possible. Steve carefully pushed back the heavy tent flaps, dropped down now to obscure visitors while the carnival workers began packing up for the night; the soldier almost immediately back away in disappointment when he realized his slim hope was not to be realized: Trick Shot was nowhere to be seen, just a few maintenance workers cleaning up tiredly after the animals and the now-dispersed crowd, and the Swordsman standing off-center in the main ring. The duelist gave a harsh shout of annoyance, disgust clearly written in his imperious tone, and Steve curiously followed the performer's glare and projection of his voice to the thin wire strung high across the tent where a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen balanced carefully on the platform, a nocked arrow resting against his thin shoulder as he sighted cautiously at an almost impossible target on the ground below.

"Don't hesitate, boy!" the Swordsman shouted abruptly, irritation present in every nuance of his voice. "If you insist on practicing with that goddamn piece of shit toy, you'd damned well better make sure you're good at it!"

The duelist's infuriated bellows distracted the boy's concentration and Steve took an involuntary step forward, a muted gasp on his lips as the boy tottered at the edge of the platform unsteadily. The teenager hastily righted himself, however, and without further pause let the arrow fly. It hit the target solidly, barely off-center, and more arrows followed it rapidly, some closer to the red-painted bullseye, some a little farther away, but all of them striking the board until the last arrow was spent. Awed, Steve almost burst into appreciative applause but his focus was drawn from the target and the irate duelist to the boy as he carefully made his way down the long rope ladder, his movements choppy and awkward until he finally dismounted carefully, testing the weight he put on his right ankle before planting both feet on the ground. The young archer winced and limped off tensely toward the exit used by departing acts at the far end of the tent, not even glancing behind to see if his instructor followed.

As Steve waited hesitantly, still unsure if he had an opportunity to approach the duelist who could perhaps introduce him to Trick Shot, the Swordsman approached the boy, concern written throughout his haughty expression. Steve nodded quietly in satisfaction: despite his sharp words, it appeared the duelist did at least care for the boy and Steve was relieved: life in a traveling circus couldn't be easy, especially for a child.

Resigned to be a novice archer _without_ any master advice, Steve was about to back out of the tent when his sharp eyes caught the harsh way the older man's hand closed tightly around the boy's upper arm as they brushed through the swinging tent flaps, and Steve's startled gaze saw the distinct look of fear that flashed across the teen's face and the ineffectual attempt to free himself from the much larger man's grasp.

Steve told himself firmly not to jump to conclusions, but he couldn't push from his mind the boy's frightened expression and tense, limping gait. The soldier quickly made his way to the exit the pair had disappeared through; they knew the grounds far better than the soldier and had vanished by the time he reached the outside, but Steve knew they couldn't have gotten far. He noted where the cluster of smaller tents and trailers was set up as living arrangements for the performers and other workers, and hastily scoured the area searching for the duelist and his charge. Steve almost took a lobbed high heel to his furiously blushing face when he stumbled into a tent that was clearly not the one he was looking for, and he hastily mumbled embarrassed apologies to the enraged couple as he backed away quickly, hands raised in a placating gesture.

Eventually Steve found the pair behind a trailer spattered with bright posters that proudly heralded the fantastic Swordsman. The solider reasoned to himself that he just wanted to ensure the boy was okay, but the second he laid eyes on them he could see that the young archer was clearly _not_ okay.

The Swordsman had a clenched fist raised to deliver a punishing blow to the teenager already curled and trembling on the hard, dirty ground. A scathing denunciation on the duelist's lips turned into a startled curse as he found his wrist caught in a viselike grip and the large man stumbled, off-balance and awkward as his arm was yanked behind his back and he suddenly found himself facing furious blue eyes glaring from a face carved in stone.

"What do you think you're doing?" Steve demanded fiercely, and without waiting for a stuttered answer the soldier refocused his piercing gaze on the teenager now climbing unsteadily to his feet, keeping a wary distance between himself and his companion. "Are you all right, son?" Steve questioned gently, and he wished he could think of a better way to phrase the clearly inaccurate question.

The boy nodded tightly, his dirty blonde hair spilling into his blue eyes. "Yeah, fine," he muttered as he wiped the back of his hand across the blood dribbling from his split lip, leaving a trail of red smeared down his pale cheek. He darted a nervous glance toward the Swordsman, but there was a spark of defiance in them as well, as if he were daring the bigger man to take another swing at him while his unexpected savior was here.

The Swordsman finally seemed to have gotten over his shock, and he tried unsuccessfully to extricate himself from Steve's grasp with a vicious yank of his brawny arm. "This is not your concern," he growled at Steve, nearly hanging from Steve's powerful grip as the irritated soldier lifted the other man nearly to the tips of his toes to lessen his struggles, and even the boy gave him a look that was unreadable but not exactly grateful.

"Is this your child?" Steve asked pointedly, glaring at the burly duelist. "Are you responsible for this boy?"

"Hell, no!" the boy snorted sardonically, but at Steve's arched eyebrow he added, "… mister," in a hesitant grumble. Steve didn't approve of the clearly anti-authority undertone in the teen's voice, but he let it slide. He settled the Swordsman back on the ground but didn't release him and the duelist added darkly,

"The boy is my apprentice, but _not_ my responsibility."

"Who takes care of you, then?" the soldier directed at the boy.

"No one," was the defiant reply as the kid grew more irritated, more anxious. "I take care of myself."

"Where are your parents?" Steve pressed, and was rewarded with a sullen and succinct,

"Dead."

Steve found himself at a loss. He had no experience with children - he was barely beyond one himself; only the horror of war and the grit ingrained in him from sacrificing to serve his beloved country had hardened him into a man beyond his years. Yet the soldier was not unaware of what he'd unwittingly interrupted, of the angry red weal crossing the boy's cheek, and he guessed uneasily that this wasn't the first time the man had struck the teen, nor would it be the last unless something changed, and Steve couldn't - _wouldn't_ - allow that to happen when he could prevent it.

Steve gave the Swordsman a final dark look as he released him; the duelist had gone quiet and tense, fearful like all bullies when they actually encounter someone bigger than them - and Steve had no small experience with bullies.

"Don't touch him again," he warned, and from anyone else it would have sounded like an idle threat, but Steve didn't _make_ idle threats and the duelist paled even as he struggled to regain some small part of his haughty dignity.

Steve turned to the teen, palm open, fingers spread wide. "Come with me, son," he said firmly, no room for disagreement. The teen ignored his outstretched hand but fell in beside him obediently, though Steve didn't fail to notice the worried glance the boy sent the glaring Swordsman, nor the careful distance he maintained just out of Steve's arm's reach. Steve set a careful pace, mindful of the archer's unsteady limp.

"Where are you going?" the teen asked quietly, head low but eyes defiant, and there might have been a flash of apprehensive fear that snaked across his pensive expression but it was gone before Steve could fully register it.

"I intend to speak with the ringmaster," Steve answered honestly. "The owner of this circus."

The teen stopped suddenly, sneakers scuffing to a halt in the dirt. "Mister Carson?" he asked in surprise. "Why?"

Steve leveled what he hoped what a reassuring look at the boy. "The Swordsman is mistreating you, son - "

"Don't call me that," the boy interrupted rudely, again swiping too-long blonde hair from his eyes. "It's Clint," he added with a frown, clearly loathe to release even that much information yet apparently regarding it as the lesser of two annoyances.

"I can't allow you to be treated that way, Clint," Steve continued. He flexed his near-frozen fingers inside his jacket pockets, noticing that the teen didn't look cold at all, and added, "I intend to speak with Mister Carson about it."

Clint huffed a little laugh that dripped misery and cynicism. "What makes you think talking to him is gonna help?"

Steve frowned. "Isn't it?"

The teenager gave him a look that clearly asked if he'd been born yesterday. Born? No. Thawed out after a long nap? _Yes_.

"Only if by 'help' you mean 'make things worse.'" Clint moved close enough to pull on his sleeve with a thin hand, awkward and gangly. "Listen," he murmured plaintively, "it's not a big deal. You caught him at a bad time. We … " the archer looked wistful for a moment, "we're in this together, my brother and me. It's not bad. Trust me when I say that you talking to anyone is only gonna upset a lot of people. And we like it here."

It was the most Steve had heard from the teen, and he picked up a slight drawl in his voice he hadn't noticed before. The soldier wasn't completely convinced it _was_ fine, but at this point the soldier wasn't certain what else to offer. And Agent Fury was forever on his case about trying to help every stray and little old lady that crossed his path. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he finally asked, and Clint looked at him shrewdly.

"Can you spare five bucks?" he asked cautiously. "The string on my bow needs replaced, it's getting worn and throwing my aim off." His bright eyes were earnest and Steve almost shook his head and offered a quick lesson in priorities to this boy who clearly didn't get much to eat, but when asked what he needed chose to repair his only treasure instead … but Steve thought this would grievously offend young Clint so instead he simply fished his wallet from his back pocket and rifled through the bills inside. "Here." He handed the teen a twenty. "Get something to eat, too." He replaced his wallet and held out a hand to the boy. "I'm Steve, by the way."

Clint's eyes widened at the gift and he impulsively threw his arms around Steve in a quick hug. "Thanks," he said quietly, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Steve jammed his hands back in his pockets, a little disconcerted by the whole encounter, but feeling marginally better about the world in general as he leaves the circus grounds thinking of Clint's grateful face and fierce hug.

It wasn't until he got back to his apartment that he realized his wallet was missing.

OoOoOoOoOo


	3. Chapter 3

The authors very much wish to thankour readers! Just a gentle reminder to those who don't already know, the life of the Barton brothers isn't the easiest ... nothing graphic, but do be forewarned of some violence and language.

Thanks very much _StrawberryWaltz, Shazrolane, Shelley2728, ladybug114, Liliththestormgoddess, Nico Matt, Ophelia Lake, jess, HazySunray, Manicpanicgirl, Proclaim The Warrior Soul, _and our _Guests_ for reviewing! Your comments are fantastic (love how suspicious readers were of Clint's out of character hug) and definitely Muse-inspiring!

**Rebirth**

By: Syntyche and Bookdancer

Chapter Three

As impassive and impressive as a glacier, Steve Rogers rarely allowed his emotion to crest above the surface, instead conscious that his every move, his every word, could be an example to others who admired Captain America. Although he was deeply uncomfortable with hero worship and flattery, he accepted it graciously as part of the "superhero" package and tried only to do his utmost to live up to the Captain's almost larger-than-life persona.

This morning, however, Steve returned to the carnival grounds with thunderclouds looming dangerously over his dark blonde head, a sight to behold indeed. He had, in a moment of gallows humor, considered wearing Cap's uniform to confront young Clint and scare the _living daylights_ out of the irascible thief, but, ever conscious of his image, Steve also realized it would not look good for Captain America to have had his wallet stolen.

The carnival was not yet open to the public, but the first person who questioned his arrival received Steve's SHIELD-issued ID - thankfully _not_ kept in his stolen wallet - thrust into his face along with the darkly asked inquiry as to the location of the hapless Clint.

Steve stalked through the scattered workers as they prepared for their final show at this stop, and as he followed the stammered directions he'd been given he tried to ignore the stares and whispers and the way the midway cleared out as he approached, performers vanishing into tents and busywork as Steve drew near. The solider suspected it was less that he'd been recognized and more the appearance of his government ID that had the carnival workers scrambling, and Steve wondered briefly just how many criminals traveled with and performed in the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. It might be something to bring to SHIELD's attention later on.

He found the scrawny roustabout he sought hauling feed from pen to pen, patiently tending to animals who looked much better cared for than he did. Steve was extremely unhappy with the teenager who had repaid the soldier's mercy with outright thievery, but some of Steve's ire faded into an anxious chill that settled across his shoulderblades when, in the brightness of the early morning sun, Steve could see shadows lining the boy's eyes and the way he moved, stiffly mechanical and careful, as he worked.

Clint was speaking with a girl about his own age; she sat near him as he watered a pair of show horses and she brushed down their glossy chestnut sides with the rough bristles of a curry comb. They were deep in low-voiced conversation as Steve approached, both looking unhappy and apprehensive as they worked and it was only due to his enhanced hearing that Steve was able to pick out what they were saying.

"I need to ask Jacques about it," Clint mumbled pensively, his brow rumpled in a worried frown. "If they're stealing money in those amounts - "

"You can't do that, Clint! It's too dangerous," the girl interrupted fiercely, clutching the handle of the curry comb with fingers white with tension. She swatted angrily at the dark strands of curly hair that had escaped her tight braid to tease at her, and brushed the mare's mane a little rougher in frustration. The mare whinnied disapprovingly and shot her a dark look, and Clint gently patted the horse's thick neck and whispered quietly comforting words while the girl looked on guiltily but no less aggravated. She tossed her unraveling braid back over her shoulder and offered hopefully, "Let me talk to Dad, he'll know what to do."

"No!" Clint shook his head forcefully, a quick flash of fear darting across his face before he settled back into firm resolve. "You can't, Marcy. If Barney's involved at all - "

Intrigued by the conversation yet uncomfortable with continued eavesdropping, Steve crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat loudly. The girl glanced behind them first, her mouth automatically twisting into a forced smile didn't alleviate the concern lining her young, sun-freckled face.

"Can we help you?" she asked the soldier politely, and at her query Clint glanced back and the protest he'd been uttering died on his lips as he caught sight of Steve. Steve was dryly pleased to see the teen's face pale just a little; it meant the boy still had _some_ shame, at least.

"Good morning," Steve said evenly, with an expectant undertone that Clint easily picked up on. Didn't stop him from trying, though.

"Morning, uh … sir," Clint chimed in, suddenly directing extreme focus on feeding the horse he stood next to - but there were only so many times he could empty the feed bucket into the already full trough. "Back for another show?" he asked, sunnily cheerful and pleasant. "I hear Trick Shot's trying something new tonight - "

Steve waited. The girl clearly sensed that something was off and shot Clint a worried look, hissing his name in a questioning whisper. Clint shook his head shortly and forged on bravely,

"Um … did you try the ring toss? There's kind of a trick to it - "

"I think you have something that belongs to me," Steve finally said, eyebrow raised pointedly.

Clint actually grinned a little, a small smile that was more real than all the bright enthusiasm that had proceded it, all hapless innocence and _why, what do you mean, good sir?_ - but Steve already knew better from even his brief experience with the teen. "I guess," Clint admitted sheepishly, than added admiringly, "You're sharper than most marks."

"I'd like it returned, please," Steve replied sternly, covering his own exasperated grin at the shameless impudence somehow displayed so innocently. Something about the teen's spirit resonated a chord with the soldier, and Steve was finding it difficult to hold on to his irritation though he desperately wanted to appear unyieldingly disapproving of the young archer's reproachable actions.

"I'll be back, Marcy," Clint tossed over his shoulder as he clutched the empty feed pails and gingerly made his way across the pen, limping carefully. The closer to Steve he got, the less sure his stride, but the teen clambered gamely over the makeshift fence and deposited the empty feed buckets carefully in their proper place as he gestured for Steve to follow him. Steve had actually expected a little more cocky defiance from the boy after being confronted for getting caught red-handed, but something about the way Clint stayed out of arm's reach while nervously tugging his sleeves down past his wrists and ducking his head to hide the darkened skin across his cheek made the solder think the teen's lighthearted grin was a just a little too obvious.

Clint's limping stride slowed as they reached a small tent filled with more animal pens, feed, and stacks of packing crates. It was musty and hot, and the rank, heavy air turned Steve's stomach. Tucked away in the far corner was an old, faded green unfurled bedroll, a battered grey lockbox, and a little mess of blankets and clothes that could only be described as _nestlike._ Unbothered by the loudly bleating llamas and disgusting smell, Clint lowered to a knee to fiddle with the lockbox.

Once the lock clicked he pushed the lid up and carefully moved items around to retrieve Steve's absconded wallet; he locked the box and rose, almost guiltily dropping the pilfered item into Steve's outstretched palm. Although he would have liked to simply blame his sharp eyes for picking up on small details, Steve knew he found what he suspected he would because he'd been looking for it: as Clint handed the wallet over, Steve caught sight of darker, fresher bruises circling the teen's wrist. The soldier gently reached out and caught Clint's arm as he withdrew and the archer's eyes widened as Steve carefully pushed his sleeve up, revealing more splotchy bruises standing out against the tan of Clint's skin.

"What the hell?" Clint demanded angrily, jerking his arm away and glaring harshly. "Don't touch me!"

Steve slid his wallet securely into his pocket and backed up a step, palms out, his stomach churning at more evidence of repeated abuse. It was hard for the gentle soldier to walk away even though he knew his interference was not appreciated, either by Clint or Fury, who had in no uncertain terms told his agent that he was tired of him picking up strays and SHIELD wasn't a daycare, a nursing home, _or_ responsible for kittens stuck in trees.

"I not going to hurt you," Steve said steadily, fixing his calm blue eyes on the young man before him trembling with anger and anxiety. "I want to help."

The teen gave him a look of unadulterated skepticism and disbelief. "I gave you back your stuff. What else do you really want?" Clint snarled at him, on the defensive and he reminded Steve of a wounded animal protecting its exposed weak spots, bouncing uneasily on the balls of his feet; Steve recognized the fight-or-flight response kicking in, and searched desperately for a way to talk the teen out of either.

"Clint!"

A man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Clint barreled into the tent, and Steve remembered that Clint had yesterday mentioned a brother. The new arrival was already swinging toward Steve, his face venomous, his hands balled into fists.

"What do you want?" he demanded, unknowingly parroting his younger brother's question. Steve tried his best to look both non-threatening and authoritative: not an easy feat for Captain America. He made a sudden, swift decision.

"I'd like to talk with you," he requested simply, and Clint made a startled noise somewhere between a gasp and a strangled snort as his brother rounded on him fiercely.

"Barney, I didn't do anything, I swear - " he started pleadingly.

Some of the anger drained from Barney's expression; the vulnerability in his little brother's bruised face softening his own irritation. "Go back to work, Clint, or we'll hear about it soon enough," he said with a tired sigh, and Clint gave Steve an anxious look as he darted out of the tent obediently, clearly hoping Steve would keep him out of trouble.

"My name is Steve Rogers," Steve began, composed yet urgent as he offered a quick account of his initial visit to the carnival and subsequent confrontation with the Swordsman. The soldier explained that he'd returned today to retrieve his _mysteriously_ misplaced wallet and noticed even more bruises marking Clint's arms. Steve was uneasily bothered that, as he told his story, Barney's face remained politely impassive: no shock, no concern, no surprise, just a quiet tolerance that seemed as practiced as Clint's carefree grin.

"I'm worried about your brother," Steve finished quietly, hoping for any sort of reaction that would show him it was okay to leave these boys behind, that they were actually in better hands than he suspected and he had just caught them at a bad time.

Fury called him an idealist. Steve knew the agent was right to do so.

Barney shifted his stance coolly and unfortunately his calm answer was not the reassurance Steve was looking for. "That's just the way things are here," he explained easily, dismissive yet firm. "We deal with it."

"But you shouldn't _have_ to," Steve protested, and Barney gave him a look that spoke volumes from eyes that were dark and steady where Clint's were light and stormy.

"This is what we have," he said quietly. "What else can we do?"

The simple question burned through Steve's mind as he slowly exited the cluttered tent. He was completely unsurprised to see Clint waiting nervously outside, clearly within hearing distance of the supposedly private conversation. Steve offered the teen a small smile and a sudden idea occurred to him: he fished around in his jacket pocket for the flyers from Fury he'd stashed there and carefully selected the auto show flyer from amidst the highly indecent promos Steve couldn't even look at without blushing and certainly wasn't unwittingly giving to a teenaged boy. The soldier fished a pen from his inside breast pocket and scribbled his name, address, and phone number onto the flyer and handed the paper to Clint.

"This is my information," Steve explained gravely. "Please don't hesitate to call if you need help."

Steve's brow furrowed as Clint took the paper cautiously, looking at the words a little too carefully and a little too long. A strange notion grabbed at Steve's brain. "Can you read it okay?" he asked gently, a moment before it occurred to him that Clint didn't respond well to mercy because he seemed actually unsure of what it was. An embarrassed look flashed across Clint's face and he jammed the paper into jeans pocket hastily.

"Thanks," he said, and limped off without another word or glance, leaving Steve alone and unsettled.

Steve didn't expect his phone to ring later on in the middle of the night, nor did he expect to answer sleepily and hear an official-sounding woman on the other end of the line crisply confirming his name and whether or not he knew a Clint Barton. He almost said _no_, then his sleep-fogged mind reminded him of young circus Clint and he unthinkingly replied _yes_. The woman rapidly gave him her reason for calling, and Steve had barely replaced the phone on the receiver before he was bundled back into his leather jacket, the wind pulling freezing tears from his eyes as he sped toward Mount Sinai Hospital.

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	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to all reviewers! Your comments are much appreciated!

**Rebirth**

By: Syntyche and Bookdancer

Chapter Four

A numb heaviness settled over Steve as he quietly entered Mount Sinai Hospital. Although he had meant it earnestly when he'd given Clint his phone number and said to call if the teen needed anything, he was honestly surprised and more than a little apprehensive at what awaited him as he calmly - on the outside - collected the necessary information from a tired-looking nurse at the front desk and proceeded through the short atrium to the elevator bank.

He hadn't been directed to the ICU, and that seemed a small blessing as Steve jabbed the button for the designated floor. A multitude of thoughts tumbled through the subdued soldier's mind as he endured the suffocating ride in silence; he had already found that he didn't much like elevators and he would have taken the stairs, but the elevator car was already waiting and a sense of urgency tickled at the back of his neck.

Steve drummed the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep anxiously. It was so claustrophobic in the tiny space … he should have taken the stairs … he _really_ should have taken the stairs … he cracked an apprehensive half-smile at his own disquiet: Captain America was afraid of elevators. It was kind of funny.

He exited the elevator with much relief and found himself approaching a small, comfortable but unappealing waiting area off to one side. Steve was torn between waiting to be summoned in, or just locating the room he'd been told was currently assigned to Clint Barton.

Steve's anxiety and concern made the decision for him, and he continued down the hall, reading the small numbers posted by the doors easily until he reached the correct one. One more stabbing moment of hesitation and he went in, trepidation lending a swiftness to his steps that belied the forced calm of his exterior.

The lighting in the room was dimmed, either in deference to the late hour or as a courtesy to the room's occupants, but Steve's sharp gaze had no trouble seeing exactly what had made his phone ring in the middle of the night.

For a boy of thirteen, Clint Barton should be putting on weight; bulking up and gaining muscle: hale, healthy, and whole. Instead, the clearly underfed roustabout lying on the bed was all arms and legs, with a protruding ribcage that made Steve's heart ache with pity. Clint's brother Barney wasn't much better off; Steve caught sight of the elder Barton's shoulder blades sharply outlined against the teen's shirt from where he hunched miserably over the bed, his fingers loosely brushing Clint's lax hand.

Clint was asleep, dwarfed by machinery and monitors. The bruises Steve had noticed on the teen's arms - just yesterday? - paled in comparison to livid dark marks that now scored the boy's ashen skin. If it wasn't a bruise, it was a gash or a weal not bad enough to need stitches or bandaging, but there were plenty of those, too, peppering Clint's skin at irregularly-spaced intervals. Clint's right arm and leg were both in casts, and Steve's anger spiked a notch when his eyes fell on the clear imprint of a boot heel peeking out from beneath a bright white bandage wrapped around his lower ribcage. Both of Clint's eyes were black.

Guilt and sorrow washed over the soldier as he looked upon the pitiable scene. Was there more he should have done? What more _could_ he have done? Neither of the brothers had wanted to leave the familiarity of the carnival and Steve was neither their guardian nor parent and had absolutely no sway over their lives. And yet, Barney had called _him_, a man he had met _yesterday_, because he somehow felt that Steve was the best hope Clint had after something this awful had happened to him.

It was heart-rending and terrible.

Steve carefully placed a hand on Barney's shoulder since the teen seemed unaware of his entrance. "Hey," he murmured, not wanting to disturb Clint. Barney blinked sleepily a few times as he lifted his head groggily; his shoulders were deeply slumped and he breathed out shakily as he turned dull eyes to Steve.

"Thanks for coming," Barney said slowly; he sounded oddly formal but his voice cracked when he added, "I didn't know who else to call."

"What happened?" Steve asked quietly, unable to draw his concerned gaze away from the unconscious teen struggling for every breath right before his eyes. Had it even been a day since he had seen Clint, vibrantly alive and smiling?

"My brother's a dumbass," Barney snorted, and though the comment sounded callous Steve didn't hear any actual venom in Barney's exhausted tone, just weariness and fear. "He should have known better. I told him not to do it."

Steve raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Care to explain?"

Barney shook his head brusquely with a sharp laugh that trailed off into misery. "No." He pushed himself to his feet easily, with a loose-limbed grace evident despite his dispirited slouch. "Can you sit with him? I just … need a minute and I didn't want to leave him alone."

Steve nodded, still unsure of his place in all this. Clint twitched in his sleep and Barney patted his hand reassuringly. "Of course," Steve agreed. "Take all the time you need."

Barney nodded gratefully and moved for the door, stumbling a little in his exhaustion as he brushed pashed Steve and the soldier unconsciously reached out a hand to steady the younger man.

"Easy there," he chided gently as he helped Barney straighten. A look flashed through the elder Barton's hooded gaze that stopped Steve in his tracks and his hand involuntarily tightened on the teenager's arm. Perhaps due to his previous encounter with Clint's quick fingers, the darkly determined expression Steve caught that Barney didn't manage to cover gave the soldier pause as he dropped his free hand suspiciously into his newly emptied pocket.

It wasn't money the teenager had been after, though, and Steve's keys clattered together as Barney hastily closed his hand into a fist.

Steve stared at him grimly, his strong features schooled into a blank mask, but he knew his disappointment bled into the grave look he settled on the younger man.

"Think you're going somewhere?" he asked, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Maybe," Barney retorted bitingly, frustration written in the deep creases that already lined his too-young face. Steve's hand on his shoulder halted his forward movement but he still bounced unhappily on his toes, and Steve suspected that only the still and quiet form of his younger brother kept Barney from bolting entirely.

"Sit," Steve instructed quietly, and Barney still looked like he was about to fight, so Steve repeated the command calmly, using a tone that said it wasn't a request. Barney sat, resignation flooding his features as he reclaimed the chair he'd occupied earlier and reached for his brother's fingers, lying across the pale yellow blanket covering his battered body.

Once Barney had turned grudgingly expectant eyes to him - and Steve had reclaimed his keys - Steve asked the question that had burned at him since the phone call that had brought him to this room. "What did you call me?" he asked somberly. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't just so you could borrow my bike, so what is it you think I can do for you?"

Barney's gaze narrowed in thought and to Steve he looked exactly like what he was: a boy used to carrying far more weight than he should have had to at such a young age.

"I can't let Clint go back to the circus," he finally said. "It's too dangerous for him now."

"What happened?" Steve wanted to know.

Barney shook his head sharply, a quick jerk accompanied by a bitterly harsh laugh. "Doesn't matter now. He got himself involved in something he shouldn't have."

Again Steve was deeply concerned by Barney's impassive callousness toward injustices perpetrated upon himself and his brother. "How can you say it doesn't matter?" he demanded, waving a hand toward the bed and struggling to keep the volume in his voice low. To say he was shocked and appalled didn't even come _close_ to the truth. He pointed at Clint's extensive array of bandaging. "Does _this_ not matter?"

"Clint'll be fine," Barney said shortly, putting a note of false assurance into his tone that Steve understood was meant to convince him - and perhaps Barney as well - of that truth. "He's a tough kid. Can I go now? I just want to get something to eat, I swear." His eyebrows lifted inquisitively and Steve sensed he was holding back the sarcasm he wanted to layer on to the petulant question; perhaps Barney realized he was on thin ice with the soldier watching him expectantly.

Steve nodded, his thoughts already drifting ahead as he fished a five out of his wallet and handed it to the teenager - maybe it would keep him from stealing whatever the cafeteria was offering. Barney looked startled but took the bill with a muttered "thanks."

Once the door clicked behind Barney, Steve used the bedside phone to call Fury and ask his surprised handler for another day of leave. Steve wasn't certain what he was going to do about the Barton brothers yet, but he did know that he couldn't just walk away again. His request was granted with the suspicious but suggestive addendum, "_She must have a hell of few tricks up her sleeve; you'll have to give me her number,"_ that made Steve's face redden. Of _course_ Fury would have thought he'd chosen one of the clubs from the flyers.

Steve scrubbed at his burning face awkwardly. Then he settled in to wait.

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint Barton knew a lot about pain.

He knew about the physical pain of broken bones and dislocated shoulders and kneecaps. He knew about pain wrapped in numbness that came with hopelessly wishing for years for the death of someone you hated only to not actually know how to feel when it really, unbelievably, happens. And he knew about the pain that ate at you, piece by piece, as people you cautiously allowed yourself to finally trust turned on you and took even more of who you were without a second thought to the mess they were leaving behind.

When he slowly opened his swollen eyes to darkness and some feeling crept back into his slack limbs, Clint wasn't sure he'd ever been aware that this much physical pain could exist in his body at one time. He wanted to scream - he was distantly aware that he might have been when he'd finally given up fighting and gave in to unconsciousness clawing at him - but he couldn't lift his clenched fist to press against his mouth to muffle his cries like he had so many times before so he stayed silent, save a hitching growl that slipped past his throat despite his best efforts.

It took Clint a moment to realize that someone was standing by his bed, and his heart started to thud even louder against his aching chest. He couldn't see, everything was blurry and dim and he couldn't stop another groan that came with that depressing realization as fear washed over him: _Jacques had found him! He'd come to finish him - _

"Clint_."_

The voice in the darkness was soft and calm and Clint didn't recognize it. He knew instantly it didn't belong to the Swordsman, and he forced a hissing exhale through gritted teeth. He wondered if he could pretend he was still asleep, could convince the intruder he was completely at his mercy just in case he needed the few seconds surprise would buy him if necessary.

Clint heard the creak of stiff leather across broad shoulders as the man reached out a hand, hovering just near him without being close enough to reach him. Clint's breathing sped up, tension tightening his chest; even though it wasn't a closed fist coming toward him, the memories were too near the surface and he twitched away, snarling in frustration at his inhibited movements.

"It's Steve," the man said gently, "from the circus."

_Steve?_ Scattered memories spilled across Clint's jumbled brain as he tried to remember, but nothing was coming to his mind and he sighed miserably, wondering if he should be terrified, consoled, or cautious.

Well, the last was a given. Clint was always cautious.

"I'm sorry," he tried to say, although he wasn't sure why he should be sorry but the words staggered out anyway, incoherent and slurred. Clint's brow crinkled in frustration and the man seemed to notice his confusion because he said,

"It's okay if you don't remember just yet. We're at the hospital. Barney's here, he's sleeping." There was a pause and Clint sensed the man moving away, heard water running and a moment later the man was back, gently pressing a cool, damp cloth into his hand. "For your eyes," he said, and he guided Clint's hand to carefully cover his bruised eyes. It felt good but instead of being comforted by the gesture, Clint's anxiety only increased: in his experience, _kind_ came with a price.

He muttered a few more nonsensical words, already too tired to do anything more, and hoped his world would somehow be less dark and confusing when he awoke again.

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Thanks for reading! Please let us know what you think! Coming up in chapter five: some sweet h/c, and Steve starts to realize just how far in over his head he is ...


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